Trying to Find a Light
by Hummingbird1759
Summary: Five times John watched Sherlock sleep, and one time Sherlock watched John. No slash.
1. January 2010

_A/N: This is just a little bit of fluff (with a dash of angst at the end) that I pounded out in an effort to get my writing mojo back. Enjoy!_

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><p><em>He ran through the rocky Afghan hills, searching for the last wounded man that he knew was out there. Six, he told himself, there were six men on patrol and we've only found five. Where's Bates? He scrambled up a rocky hillside as voices echoed behind him, shouting in English and Pashtu. Bates had to be somewhere around here. He saw a boot sticking out from behind a large boulder, and raced toward the fallen man… only to find that a land mine had split Bates in half.<em>

John Watson awoke with a start and sat bolt upright in his bed, dripping with sweat. Another nightmare, but at least this one had ended before the shooting started. He sank back onto the mattress and buried his face in the pillow until he could get the tears under control. _(Can't have my new flatmate thinking I'm a coward.)_ He practiced the deep breathing techniques Ella had taught him, and after a few painful minutes, flopped over onto his back and wiped his eyes on his pajama sleeve. Within five minutes, it became clear that he was still too keyed up to sleep, so he threw on his robe and decided to go downstairs.

Having lived at Baker Street a mere 48 hours, John still wasn't sure of his flatmate's sleeping habits. He'd had a roommate at Bart's who woke if John so much as changed positions while he slept, and he'd had a tentmate in the Army who remained asleep while six other soldiers were having a poker game five feet away. John figured that a posh boy like Sherlock was more towards the light sleeper end of the spectrum, and thus he make a Herculean effort to be quiet.

As he made his way downstairs, he heard no sound coming from his flatmate's bedroom. _(Good. Sound asleep, then.)_ He was about to flip on the sitting room light when he walked into a pair of feet and nearly toppled over. As he righted himself, the doctor looked down and saw Sherlock sprawled on the couch, face buried in the cushions and feet dangling off of one end. John took a moment to wonder why his flatmate was sleeping here when he had a proper bed. Then he decided that was sleeping on the couch was probably the least odd thing Sherlock had done since they'd met, and he stopped wondering.

There was just enough light coming through the curtains for John to pick his way through the sitting room and find the kitchen. _(Warm milk. That's what I need.) _As he retrieved the milk carton from the refrigerator, he nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound from the next room.

Sherlock was snoring.

When John was a boy, his Granny owned an English Bulldog named Gladstone. She said she'd purchased Gladstone because he reminded her of her late husband. _("But he's wrinkly and fat and snores!" Harry said. "Exactly!" Granny crowed.)_ And like most bulldogs, Gladstone's snores were legendary. The whole house knew when Gladstone napped, and it didn't matter how much they adjusted the volume on the television or how many closed doors were between them and Gladstone; they would hear the snorting and flapping of his jowls loud and clear.

Until now, John had never met a human who could equal Gladstone at snoring.

He turned toward the sitting room and cocked his head as he tried to square the image of the well-dressed detective who took over crime scenes with flair and bravado with the image of the pajama-clad lout snoring on the sofa. Silently, he began to chuckle to himself. _(I bet there are a lot of people who'd pay to see this… but I probably can't get to my phone without waking him.) _

Hearing Sherlock's snores reminded him of the nights he'd spent at Granny's as a small boy, Gladstone stationed at the foot of his bed. The corners of his mouth tugged up at the memory, and then the smile turned into a yawn as he remembered how tired he was. _(I guess I don't need the milk after all.)_

John Watson tiptoed back to bed and slept soundly the rest of the night.

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><p><em>AN: I am in debt to LiveJournal user folha5eca for posting floor plans of 221B!_


	2. July 2010

It was five-thirty AM on a Friday, and most of London was still at home. John Watson was technically among them, although he had just walked through the door of his home rather than having been in bed most of the night. He'd gone to dinner with Carol last night and truly hadn't expected anything. Instead, they'd wound up back at her flat. As amazing as the night had been, he'd had to cut it a bit short because he had an early shift at the clinic with Sarah. He couldn't very well go to work in yesterday's clothes – flaunting one's romantic success in front of an ex-girlfriend was never a good idea, especially if she was your supervisor – so he'd left a note for Carol, promised to call that evening, and slunk back home to shower and change.

The early morning light was just coming through the sitting room windows when John walked in. The hair on the back of John's neck stood up when he saw that Sherlock was not on the couch – over the past six months, that was the only place he'd ever seen Sherlock sleep. _(Case? No, he'd have texted. God, I hope he's not…)_

Before John could finish his thought, he heard the sound of a muffled snore coming from Sherlock's bedroom. _(That man must have sleep apnoea.)_ The bedroom door was open slightly, and John peered in to see Sherlock draped diagonally over the bed, covers twisted around his body, and clearly shirtless. The early morning sun gave his fair skin a glow, highlighted his muscles, and the expression on his face was that of perfect serenity.

John snorted at the sight. The man lived off of Chinese takeaway and pasta from Angelo's and somehow still managed to look like a Roman statue. He shook his head in disbelief before heading upstairs to the shower. When he left for work an hour later, he could still hear Sherlock snoring. _(Sleeping in on a weekday… must be nice.)_


	3. January 2011

John tromped up the stairs of 221B dragging his suitcase. The medical conference in Dublin had been productive, if less than entertaining. _(Dublin in January gives dreariness a new meaning. Next time, I'm saving for a conference in Las Vegas.)_ It was a cold, wet Sunday evening and since Sherlock hadn't texted him all week, he expected that the detective was either absorbed in his latest case or caught up in a long-running experiment. _(Either way, he probably hasn't even noticed I'm out.)_

When John reached the top of the steps, he heard a sound that nearly caused him to drop his keys. It was a horrific hacking, grinding noise, as if someone had filled 221B's garbage disposal with rocks and broken glass and turned it on. _(Jesus, what's he done now?)_

John burst through the door, suitcase in tow, expecting to find Sherlock standing in the kitchen trying to dispose of some ungodly experiment in a fashion that would probably ruin their kitchen sink. Instead, the detective was wrapped up in a blanket on the couch, a chemistry journal on his lap and body racked with coughs.

The doctor dropped his suitcase and rushed through the freezing room to Sherlock. "Jesus, Sherlock, what the hell happened to you?"

"John," Sherlock croaked. "It's about time. I've been -" he paused for more coughing punctuated by a desperate gasp for air, " - asking for you all day."

The doctor rolled his eyes. "Didn't notice I'd been gone all week, eh?"

Sherlock blinked. "You left?"

John sighed wearily and placed a gentle hand on the detective's forehead while giving him the once-over. _(No fever, no sputum – not pneumonia.) _ "Right. You've a nasty case of bronchitis, and I'm surprised you didn't give Mrs. Hudson a heart attack with that appalling cough."

"She's at her sister's," the detective grunted.

_(At least you're not going to make her sick.)_ John let out an exasperated sigh and declared, "Since it's bronchitis, it's most likely viral, so no antibiotics for you. What you need is to stay warm, rest, and drink fluids."

"Boring," Sherlock griped.

"Too bad," John responded tetchily. He tossed Sherlock the remote and said, "Here. Find yourself some crap telly while I build a fire."

Sherlock grunted and began flipping channels while John dragged in a few logs and got a fire going in the fireplace. Once the fire was popping merrily, John went into the kitchen, put the kettle on, and fetched a mug from the cupboard. Rummaging through the cabinets, he found a bottle of cheap whisky and poured two shots' worth into the mug, then added lemon juice, a few spoonfuls of sugar, and hot water from the kettle.

Placing the mug in the detective's hands, he said, "Here, drink this. It'll help you sleep."

"Dull," Sherlock snorted.

"Dying of pneumonia is more dull, and that's what your bronchitis is likely to become if you don't take this seriously," Captain Watson countered. "Now drink."

Sherlock did as he was told, and by the time his television programme had ended, he was snoring lightly. The doctor smirked at the visual: Sherlock Holmes curled up in a ball, chin to chest and looking for all the world like a child who'd stayed up too late watching telly. John draped an extra blanket over the detective for good measure, and then curled up in his chair with a book about King George III's dementia. _(Might learn something from Mad King George's caregivers.)_


	4. September 2011

"Jesus, how the hell is he so heavy?" Lestrade grunted, as he and John dragged a semi-conscious Sherlock Holmes up the steps of 221B.

"Damned if I know," John grumbled. "Lanky sod hardly eats."

Sherlock muttered something unintelligible and tried to shoot John a dirty look, although his eyes didn't quite focus.

"Quiet, you," the doctor snorted. He fumbled for his keys and unlocked the door.

The three men couldn't go through the door of 221B simultaneously, so John edged in first, dragging Sherlock's right side, and Lestrade followed, pushing Sherlock's left side. The consulting detective groaned in protest, but the DI and the doctor ignored him.

"Where's his bedroom?" Greg panted.

"Upstairs," John groaned.

Lestrade cursed under his breath, and the men made for the second flight of stairs. As they took the first step, Sherlock grumbled, "Mmm fine… c'n walk…"

"Like hell you can," John scoffed. "Irene gave you either GHB or rohypnol; you'll be out for at least two more hours."

"Need... need woman…" Sherlock slurred as they reached the top of the stairs.

Lestrade chuckled, "That's something I never thought I'd hear him say."

John grinned before opening Sherlock's bedroom door. He and Lestrade chucked the detective onto his bed as if he were a sack of old clothes going into a charity donation pile. Sherlock landed on the bed face-first and mumbling into the mattress.

The DI turned to John with an impish look on his face. "You mind if I film this?"

"Be my guest," John said with a snicker.

Lestrade opened the video camera on his phone and began recording just as Sherlock made the world's clumsiest attempt to sit up. He tried to push himself up with his arms, but then his hands slipped on the satin duvet and he wound up face first on the covers again. Then he tried to roll to one side and nearly rolled off the bed. After several minutes of flopping around like a fish, he managed to throw himself onto his back and then clumsily rolled into a sitting position, legs splayed out ungraciously in front of him.

Lestrade continued to film as John struggled to remove Sherlock's shoes. Sherlock insisted he needed to keep them on, as the woman might come back at any moment. After a few minutes, John gave up, rolled Sherlock onto his side and shut off the light.

"Get some sleep," he instructed. "I'll be back to check on you shortly."

Lestrade teased, "Aren't you worried he'll get your sheets dirty with those shoes?"

John rolled his eyes. "For God's sake, we're not a couple!"

"Right," Lestrade said, entirely unconvinced. "I'll catch the two of you later. Let me know if he gives you any trouble."

After the DI saw himself out, John returned to Sherlock's room and cracked the door. Aspiration was a significant danger for people in Sherlock's condition, he knew, and it was best that he keep an eye on Sherlock for a short while to ensure the man didn't start vomiting. _(Has he eaten anything today?)_ He sat on the floor about a meter away from Sherlock's bed, back against the wall, and checked e-mail on his phone while the detective slumbered. _(Still snoring like an obese pensioner with a broken nose, so he can't be too bad off.) _ After thirty minutes, he was satisfied that his friend was not going to emulate Bon Scott, and went downstairs.

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><p><em>AN: Bon Scott was the original lead singer of AC/DC, who died after passing out drunk and choking on his own vomit. Alcohol is bad, m'kay?_


	5. June 2012

It's never easy when a friendship fades. Sherlock had never been the type with whom John could go to the pub and have a pint, or watch rugby, or anything "normal" blokes did on the weekend. John didn't mind; hell, that was what made Sherlock so wonderful. Being Sherlock Holmes' friend was like driving a Formula One racecar at top speed through a medieval city. It was bizarre and dangerous and maddening, but John loved every minute of it.

Lately there had been fewer minutes to love.

Sherlock was pulling away from him, shutting him out. Something was eating Sherlock, that was obvious, but he wouldn't admit what. The doctor had tried to talk to him, tried to reassure him that whatever was going on, he could help, but it was to no avail. Every attempt he'd made at getting the detective to open up was stonewalled, leaving John feeling frustrated and useless.

And now, with Moriarty inexplicably acquitted, Sherlock was even more shut down than before. The detective barely said two words to him the afternoon after the verdict, and the two months after the trial had been no better. Sherlock had buried himself in experiments and research, and John had given up on getting him to say anything of substance. He picked up extra shifts at the clinic and tried to focus on the non-Sherlock bits of his life, such as they were.

Tonight, he'd been out with Stamford for a few pints and a game of darts, and the conversation had inevitably turned to Sherlock.

_"How is he since this whole Moriarty business?"_

_The doctor's jaw clenched. "Search me. He hardly speaks anymore, especially to me."_

_Stamford looked at him sympathetically. "He does that sometimes. Don't worry; he'll come round."_

_John gave a perfunctory nod and changed the subject._

At two AM, John stumbled back into 221B and found the flat darkened. Was Sherlock out, or was he actually sleeping for a change? A snore soon provided the answer, and John tiptoed up the stairs.

The detective's bedroom door was ajar, and John found himself stopping in front of it to look in. Sherlock was flopped on his stomach, left arm draped over a book and hand dangling over the side of the bed. Even in his sleep, he seemed troubled. _(Why won't you talk to me, you mad bastard? I'm your best friend… or at least, I thought I was.)_

John sighed and shook his head, then shut the bedroom door to muffle the detective's infernal snoring. The title of Sherlock's book had been barely visible from the door, but John didn't examine it. If he had, he might have had a sense of what was to happen next.

_How To Disappear_ by Frank Ahearn

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><p><em>AN: The above-named book is real._


	6. June 2012, Part 2

_A/N: Apologies for the delay! Here, at last, is our plus one. I am in debt to Ariane DeVere for posting transcripts on her LiveJournal!_

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><p>Sherlock stretched out with his feet on the lab bench, absently rolling a squash ball across the counter. John sat on a stool a few meters away, arms folded on the counter and head resting on his arms. Sherlock couldn't see John's eyes, but going by his respiratory rate <em>(eight breaths per minute)<em>, he was deeply asleep and would likely remain so until the phone call came through.

Moriarty was on the roof, or would be soon. When he arrived, one of the Homeless Network would ring John posing as a paramedic delivering the news that Mrs. Hudson had been shot. John, ever the Good Soldier, would dash off to be at her side, leaving Sherlock and Moriarty alone. Sherlock knew that was likely the last time he'd ever see his friend and ignored the feeling of unease that knowledge produced. _(Don't distract from The Work.)_

The detective had calculated thirteen possible outcomes for the way things might go once he arrived on the roof. None of those outcomes included him at home tonight with John. In the best possible outcome, he would return to Baker Street in 18 months to two years. But in at least three of the other twelve outcomes, _(death, arrest, severe injury, and those are just the quick endings…)_ he would never come home.

Sherlock knew exactly what he would say when John awoke; he'd chosen words that would cause maximum offence and push his friend out the door post haste. John had to answer the phone, exit the building, and be on the kerb looking for a taxi in the space of five minutes; otherwise, he could run into Moriarty's people. _(John cannot be considered a part of the plot. If he is, Moriarty will end him.)_

_(He'll probably hate me for what I say to him.) _A bit of Sherlock bristled at the thought of John hating him, but he dismissed the thought as quickly as it came. _ (He'll forgive me once he thinks I'm dead; it's what people do. The living always think of the dead as perfect.)_

John's mobile rang and the doctor groggily raised his head from the counter. Sherlock sucked in a deep breath and steadied himself for his performance. _(He can't hate me if he's dead.)_

"What is it?" Sherlock said in a bored tone.

"Paramedics. Mrs Hudson – she's been shot."

_(Feign surprise, he might suspect something.)_ "What? How?"

"Well, probably one of the killers you managed to attract ... Jesus. _Jesus_. She's dying, Sherlock. Let's go," John implored.

"You go. I'm busy," Sherlock replied dully.

John looked at him incredulously. "Busy?"

_(Feet stay on lab bench, make it clear I'm not going anywhere.)_ "Thinking. I need to think."

John stammered in disbelief, "You need to ...? Doesn't she mean _anything_ to you? You once half killed a man because he laid a finger on her."

_(Ninety seconds up already. Push harder or he'll never get out in time.)_ "She's my landlady," Sherlock spat.

John was incandescent with rage as he growled, "She's dying ... You _machine. _Sod this. Sod this. You stay here if you want, on your own."

_(Two minutes up. He must leave now.)_ Sherlock calmly repeated his father's philosophy. "Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."

"No. _Friends_ protect people," John barked as he walked out the door.

Sherlock watched, half-relieved and half-wistful as his friend departed. He would never wait for the lift in a situation like this, and Moriarty and his minions weren't likely to take the stairs. It was relatively easy to get a cab at this hour; with any luck, John would be long gone by the time Sherlock arrived on the roof.

An incoming text interrupted the detective's thoughts.

_I'm waiting… JM_

Sherlock squared his shoulders, put on his coat, and made for the exit. _(One of thirteen outcomes ends well for me, but ten of the thirteen end well for John and zero of the thirteen end well for Moriarty. An acceptable risk ratio.)_


End file.
